Five Missing Pieces
by Mojave Dragonfly
Summary: or, five times Neal and Peter talked that we didn't see on screen.
1. The One Where Neal Confesses

Five Missing Pieces (or, five times Neal and Peter talked that we didn't see onscreen.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to White Collar.

One

"You're going to call your G-Man? Seriously?" If Moz had been astonished earlier to learn Neal had stolen the Haustenberg, he now looked like he thought an alien had taken over Neal's body.

Neal picked up his phone, feeling faintly sick. "Moz, I can't protect her. Maybe I could if we really were friends, but I barely even know her. Peter's got the resources to make sure no one gets hurt." Neal liked risk-taking, within reason – his own reason – but he absolutely didn't want responsibility for anyone else getting hurt.

Still blinking with shock, Moz asked, "What will you tell him about the painting?"

Good question. He could very well be giving up his hard-earned freedom. But that was the kind of risk he was comfortable with. "I don't know yet," he admitted. "I'll know when I can see him." He thumbed Peter's speed-dial.

"Neal? What is it?" Peter sounded wary, as well he might with a late-night call from Neal.

"Hi Peter." Neal took a calming breath and chose his tone of voice carefully. "I need to talk to you. In person. Tonight."

"What is it?"

"Something's happened and it can't wait until tomorrow. I need to see you." Neal used his second-most persuasive voice. He needed to sound urgent but not panicky.

"Neal, it's late. I'm in my pajamas. I'm not going anywhere." Okay, Peter was going to make him give him something.

"Dorsett called me. He thinks I have his painting. If he doesn't get it back in two days he's threatened Taryn. He'll send one of his thugs to beat her up or … worse."

His ploy to distract Peter with the threat to a beautiful woman failed. "Wait," Peter said. "How did Dorsett reach you?"

Peter was firmly in suspicious FBI investigator mode. Neal's stomach started to tighten with fear that somehow Peter knew he'd taken that painting. "From my credit card. You really should have spotted me the twenty."

"And why does he think you have his painting?" Dammit, Peter did know. Now Neal had to save his own ass as well as Taryn's.

"He's pulling Taryn into this because he thinks she's my girlfriend. This is your specialty, not mine." Neal heaved the sigh he hadn't allowed himself earlier. Sometimes the truth actually was easier; he just preferred being forced into it. "C'mon, Peter, don't make me tell you this on the phone. Can I come to your place?"

He held his breath. It was practically an admission of guilt right there.

Peter paused, and Neal heard a muffled exchange with Elizabeth. "Last time you didn't bother to ask," Peter said, sourly.

Neal let out the breath. Peter would let him come over. If he could see him face-to-face, give him his best earnest, I'm-sorry-I-let-you-down expression, maybe explain why he'd done it, he'd have a chance. "And you were very upset about that," he said. "I don't want you upset."

"I'll kill the alert on your tracker. But if that GPS shows you even made a stop along the way –"

"I'm on my way. Straight there," Neal promised and hung up. He called a cab before he could look at Moz.

"You're going there?" Moz asked. "Why?"

Neal hurried to the mirror to put on his jacket and check how he looked. "I have to tell him I took the painting. It sounds like he already knows, so I've really gotta come clean." He decided against the jacket. He needed to look un-armored, as if he was so concerned about doing the right thing that he gave no thought to his appearance. He would go as he was.

"You're out of your mind," Moz said, sounding truly worried. "You'll be back in prison before dawn."

"They do executions at dawn, Moz, not incarcerations." He was touched that Moz worried about him, so he gave him his apologetic face. "If I'm going to have any chance of convincing him my intentions were good I've got to talk to him in person."

He headed out the door, running over in his head the best way to pitch this to Peter.

-tbc


	2. The One Where Neal Chastises

Disclaimer is in part 1

Two

The moment they took Tulane out of his conference room in handcuffs, Peter went to his office, closed the door and took out the phone Neal had given him. He hit the only pre-programmed speed dial on it.

"Hello?" answered Neal, street noise audible in the background. Peter noticed Neal neither identified himself nor named Peter. Cautious. Good.

"Where are you?" Peter asked, letting Neal recognize his voice before they used any names. You never know who could have gotten ahold of either of their phones.

"Not far," Neal said, his tone more relaxed. "Why?"

"Come on in. We found the diamond in one of Tulane's apartments."

"You did? That's – I have surprisingly mixed feelings about that. What about who set me up?"

_Don't stall, Neal,_ Peter thought. In the rush of catching someone clearly convictable, Hughes and the rest of the office had briefly forgotten their fugitive, but it wouldn't last. "I haven't got enough to make any accusations. But you can't stay at large. Come in so we can officially drop the charges."

"So you couldn't get Fowler for setting me up? It had to be him."

"Neal, just come to the office. Right now you're walking around free and wanted." If Neal turned himself in, Peter would have a better chance of getting the charges of escaping custody dropped.

"Believe me, I've noticed that," said Neal. "I also notice with half the law enforcement of North America hunting me, I haven't been caught."

"Neal –" Peter felt cold. The phone in his hand was his only tie to Neal Caffrey if he decided not to cooperate.

"You might want to notice I also haven't skipped town. Or the country."

Peter made himself breathe. Neal wouldn't boast about how he'd stayed if he now intended to run, would he? "Am I supposed to thank you for that?" he demanded, frightened. For all he knew Neal was halfway to San Diego or wherever he currently believed Kate to be.

"I was hauled out of there in handcuffs. If I come back, I want to look good." The background noise on Neal's phone faded. Neal must have stepped somewhere indoors.

"What do you mean, if you come back?" Peter struggled to keep his temper. Neal could still do something disastrous, here.

"I want a shower and a change of clothes, first. I won't even insist on an apology."

"Apology! What apology?" Peter stood at his desk and something about his expression or body language must have caught Jones's attention. He saw the man look up curiously from the lower level of the FBI office.

"I told you I didn't do this," Neal said. "You didn't believe me."

Peter paced to the outer window and looked down at Manhattan, his back to the office. "We are not having this conversation. I had overwhelming evidence that you did."

"But I told you I didn't. Did it even cross your mind that I might be telling the truth?" Through his anger, Peter noted that Neal sounded genuinely hurt.

Well, too bad. "Neal, you come to HQ and turn yourself in, or I will look for you in earnest. You might want to notice I haven't been trying very hard. If I have to bring you in you won't like the consequences."

"I believe you." Neal said soberly. "On both counts. But I won't come in looking scruffy."

"You never look scruffy."

"Thank you. It requires care and very high standards. How about you meet me at June's and bring me in yourself?"

Peter struggled with an unexpected ethical dilemma. What Neal offered -- Peter could leave the office and return with Caffrey, a captured fugitive, and to the kudos he would receive for bringing him in yet again. He had only to glance at the paperwork he'd prepared for Neal's return to be reminded how much better it would be for Neal if he turned himself in. But if Neal was refusing to come directly to the office, why shouldn't Peter's career benefit from Neal's stubbornness?

"I'll meet you," Peter said, "You have one hour."

"Call off the feds at June's?"

"There's no one there. I told them you wouldn't be that stupid."

"Does my one hour start now?"

"It started ten minutes ago."

Peter had never heard Neal swear, and he didn't now, but the muffled exclamation Neal made away from the phone before disconnecting could have been, "Dammit, Peter--." Peter grinned, imagining the con man dashing for the nearest cab or train.

He turned back to see Cruz and Jones hovering outside his door. He gestured and they came in.

"What about Caffrey?" Cruz asked.

Peter reached for his jacket. "It will take the rest of the day to get him through the courts. Can you guys stay late? I was thinking we'd have a little celebration."

They both nodded, but looked confused. "You know where he is?" Jones asked.

"I know where he will be." It wasn't too late. Peter could still make this collar all about his own skill and expertise regarding Neal Caffrey. Ultimately, it was even the truth.

He regarded his junior agents. Jones, at least, had been pleased when Neal had been cleared. Peter knew they took their cues about how to view their felon consultant from him. Whatever was going on with Fowler and Tulane, Neal really hadn't forged that diamond. "Tell Hughes he's turning himself in," he said.


	3. The One Where Neal Expresses

Disclaimer: I own no rights to White Collar. They belong to other people.

A/N: Thank you to Devohoneybee for medical/drug info.

Three

Peter half-carried Neal to the door of the conference room and peered out. The hall was clear of people at the moment, but he could hear the murmur of voices in offices up and down the hall. Neal was almost a dead weight; it was like his legs were made of jelly. He pulled them both back inside the door.

"Can you walk?" he asked. "There is no way I can carry you out of here without anyone noticing."

"Sure," Neal said and demonstrated by wobbling to his feet and falling against the wall. Peter caught his arm and helped ease him down the wall to a sitting position. "Sorry, black out when I stand." For the first time Peter wondered with apprehension what on earth they had given Neal. If it was a harmless drug it must have been a huge dose, and maybe it wasn't harmless. "Need a wheelchair," Neal said to the floor he was looking at. "Thaz how I got Moz in."

"Moz is in here?!"

Neal lifted his head. "No, no, don' worry. He's left now." He gestured limply with one arm. "Garbage can."

"I'm not worried," Peter hissed. "I'm pissed. You can explain the garbage can later." The wheelchair idea was good, though.

Reading his mind, Neal said, "Lef the chair around the corner. In the hall."

All right. "Stay here," Peter said. Earlier, he'd handcuffed Neal to a chair, not only to keep Neal where he could find him, but so no one could take him away while Peter was gone. This time he didn't intend to be gone long, and clearly Neal wasn't going anywhere on his own. His heart nearly stopped as he passed two men in labcoats chatting. One of them glanced curiously at him and Peter turned on his best I-belong-here attitude and breezed by them. There was the wheelchair, right where Neal had said he'd left it.

Back inside the conference room door, Peter hauled Neal into the chair. At any moment someone would find Neal missing. They had to get out of the building unrecognized if Peter was to keep Neal out of jail. He had unquestionably gained illegal entry to the clinic and its owners could press charges if they knew who he was. Both Melissa and Dr. Powell would remember him from the Tennis Club, and the "Dr. Tennenbaum" cover wouldn't hold under close scrutiny, either. Here he was, an accessory now to Neal's crime. This was such a bad idea. How did Neal find so much trouble to get himself into? And why was Peter rescuing him from his own stupidity?

_You're the only one. You're the only person in my life I trust._

"Nice wheels," Neal said, and seemed to find himself very funny. Peter squared his shoulders and pushed Neal out into the hall. "High on a windy hill …" Neal sang. They passed one door, then a second as Peter tried to picture where the building was likely to have its elevators. "High in the hall, there's a camera," Neal sang and pointed to the ceiling groin. Peter grabbed his forearm and pushed his arm down.

"Don't call attention to us," Peter ordered. "They're not taping, but they're still watching monitors. We can't let ourselves be seen by anyone who knows either of us from the Tennis Club." Peter reached a T intersection in the hallways. To his right were stairs going down and to the left was the hall leading back to where Neal had been held. Peter really didn't want to go that way, but the stairs were out of the question. He turned left, and passed a man and young girl, the girl's arm in a sling.

"Or Nurse Ratchet and her evil minions," Neal said. He tried to twist in the chair to look at Peter, but still had little control over his muscles. "Did I tell you about that needle she had? Huge. I mean, huge. It could have gone through my arm." He settled back to looking forward. "I like having you wheel me around."

To Peter's immense relief, he spotted an elevator ahead. He stopped in front and pushed the "down" button.

"Elevator?" Neal observed. "Traps. Those things are traps, Peter. Always have cameras."

Peter had never felt so exposed when someone wasn't shooting at him. At any moment someone would walk down the hall and recognize Neal as the prisoner they'd restrained in a room not thirty feet away. "If you have to talk, Neal, talk about something else. There'll be people in the elevator."

"Okay," Neal was nothing if not agreeable in this state. "Moz was doing Die Hard. Pretty funny. 'I swear I'll never go up in a high building again.' Hey, you know how I told you about the Antioch manuscripts?"

"Uh hmm?" This was the longest wait for an elevator Peter had ever known. A door opened down the hall, and Peter felt the sweat trickle down his back. A woman emerged with a clipboard and walked behind him down the adjoining corridor.

"Thaz not an admissible confession, right? Because I'm drugged. You'd have to arrest me. I mean, there's no evidence. I could be making it all up."

The elevator dinged, but the door would never open. Peter felt he died many deaths. "Sing something, Neal. Quick. Don't stop until I tell you to." He had to get the man to stop talking.

"Love is nature's way of giving a reason to be living." Thank God the doors finally opened. A single man in hospital scrubs stepped to the side to make room for the wheelchair. Peter pushed the chair inside, but stayed facing the back wall. He'd spotted the camera, over the panel of buttons. He'd also seen that the L for lobby was already pushed. He kept the camera on their backs.

Neal looked at the man in the elevator. "Hi there," he said brightly. "You look all ready to take out someone's appendix."

The man's startled gaze went from Neal to Peter. Peter shrugged with a half-smile. "Or maybe their kidney," Neal continued. Dammit, this was exactly the kind of close up scrutiny they didn't need. "Why don't you sing some more," he said through gritted teeth.

"Right. Forgot. Not supposed to talk. "The golden crown that makes a man a king." Neal's voice reverberated badly in the elevator. Peter thought he'd finally found something Neal didn't do well.

Neal's ridiculous singing spared him having to say anything to the man he was half-facing, so Peter could think. Neal wasn't wrong about the elevator being a potential trap. If anyone watching the monitors had spotted them, they'd be waiting at the lobby level. Peter reached behind him, head down, away from the camera, to push the number 2, just as the elevator stopped on 2. Someone must have called it.

The doors opened, and Peter backed the wheelchair out. Three people who had been waiting parted to let him through, then flowed into the elevator as Peter turned the chair around. This was a level where the rooms had glass walls, like the FBI office, so that many more people could see them. Terrific. Also, there was a desk with two people acting as receptionists. Doubly terrific. And Peter still had the problem of how to get a wheelchair out of the building. "Ooh, second floor," Neal said. "You're strong _and_ smart. I like smart. This place is on a hill, you know. Those loading docks at the back would come in on the second floor."

"Sing, Neal," Peter commanded, but internally he was saying thank heavens for an astute criminal mind that did a good job of first casing the joint. He would head for the back.

"Love is a many splendored thing," Neal sang, obediently. And badly. "It's the April rose that only grows in the early spring."

"Excuse me, sir?" demanded one receptionist. "You can't just –"

"Sorry," Peter called over his shoulder, pushing Neal straight back down the broad hall, "can't wait."

"Hey!" he heard behind him, then, "Call security. Quick."

"Go fast," Neal urged. Peter agreed and started to run. At the end of the hall was a pair of swinging double-doors and an "Authorized Personnel Only" sign. Peter took a perverse pleasure in slamming past it. "Wheee!" Neal cried. They were in a receiving area full of crates and equipment, and beyond it – an open loading bay with ramps. But between them and freedom stood two burly men in safety weight belts, one holding a crowbar.

"Medical emergency," Peter called out, betting that any alarms sounded wouldn't have been noticed out here yet. "Coming through."

Their expressions showed the hostile end of puzzled, and they didn't move. Peter raced toward them, veering to the left at the last moment, away from the man with a crowbar in his hand. The other grabbed for Peter's forearm, saying something. Peter released his hold on the chair long enough to rotate the man's grip off of him. Then he was hurtling down a bumpy ramp, Neal laughing all the way, with the sound of running steps behind him. Habit and training screamed at him to stop them with "FBI," but it was exactly what he didn't dare admit to, under the circumstances. He had momentum on his side, and daily conditioning. He poured on the speed. "Hang on," he yelled to Neal.

The ramp delivered him onto a secluded service drive. He needed to make it to the street. Fortunately, it was downhill, making the weight of Neal's chair negligible. He ran all-out, and Neal's cheering took on a fearful note. He reached the street, – a side street, but still busy this time of day -- glanced around, and pelted out into it, one arm raised in a "stop" motion. A car managed not to kill the two of them, and Peter reached the opposite sidewalk. He slowed, looking back. The two receiving workers glared at him from the other walk, stymied not so much by traffic as by the publicness of their location. Breathing hard, Peter pointed Neal toward his car.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Neal said, shakily. "But you're a terrible driver."

"Well, you're a terrible singer."

"I am not!" Neal proceeded to demonstrate his singing abilities for a few bars before stopping. "Actually, thaz not very good," he conceded. "I can do better that that, really. Normally."

The two men were not following them. Peter breathed easier as he found his parked car. "I don't care," he said. He opened the passenger door. "Can you get in?"

"Sure," he said, and flopped into the seat. Peter sighed, pushing Neal's ankle – the one without the tracker – into the car, since Neal seemed to have forgotten about it. He considered abandoning the wheelchair, but the possibility of fingerprints being found on it made him collapse the thing and heave it into the back of his Taurus. Also, he had no idea where Neal had gotten it. He got into the driver's seat and drove, looking for somewhere else he could park and steady his nerves. He was still shaking.

"That was great," Neal said. "Doesn't it feel good?"

"Doesn't what feel good?"

"Getting away with it! There's no feeling like it in the world." Neal's expression was ecstatic. Peter found a place, and pulled over. He turned to face Neal.

"No it does not feel good," Peter bit out. "You know why? Because it was a _crime_. It feels good when you pull off an operation _within the law_, because then you can get a prosecution and put away a bad guy. When you do it within the law, the law protects you. You have a safety net. What was your safety net? Havisham?"

"No," Neal said, his eyes still wide and unfocussed looking, "it was you."

"Me? I do not want to be your safety net! Not for crimes, Neal. Not for criminal trespass and entering. That isn't how we do things."

Neal held out the security tape. "I guess you'll want this back, then, huh?"

Peter snatched it from him. "How did you – why do you _do_ that?"

Neal shrugged. "Habit. Practice." He grinned. "I'm really good at it. I'm like the Jedi Master of pickpocketing." His grin became a grimace, and he rubbed his forehead.

"Your modesty is overwhelming, Fagin," Peter said. He took a deep breath, and allowed relief to flood in and drown most of his anger. They'd gotten away with it. Probably. That's all it was – relief. If it felt a little like euphoria, it was only because neither of them was likely to go to jail and they hadn't compromised a future prosecution. Later he'd have to learn what Neal had found out. But there were other priorities.

"Do you have any idea what they gave you?"

Neal squinted at him, still rubbing his forehead. "Nope. It was a huge needle though, huge. You should have seen it—"

"Yes, you mentioned that before. It made you very talkative. What did you tell them?"

"Oh, nothing. Really. They asked, but that was before the huge needle of doom. Then they went away because they said it would be twenty minutes before full effect." Neal leaned his head back, eyes closed.

"Twenty minutes?" Peter's heart jolted. "We had less than twenty minutes before they came and found you missing? You could have mentioned that." Neal said nothing. "Okay, so you don't know what they gave you. How do you feel?"

Neal opened his eyes. "Uh, my head's hurting. It didn't before. Other than that – feel really, really relaxed." He held up one arm, hand hanging limply, and dropped it on his lap. "Too relaxed. Nothing works."

Peter nodded. That much he'd gathered. "Okay, we're getting you to a doctor." He started the car up again.

Neal wrinkled his nose. "'Nother doctor?"

"I don't know what they gave you, and I don't know what it will do to you. Yes, you're seeing a doctor. The Bureau has a couple of doctors we go to for this."

"For being poisoned with the huge needle of doom?"

"All I have to tell him is that you were drugged while undercover, and he won't question it."

Neal leaned against the door, eyes closed. "Okay," he said. His face had taken on a pinched look.

Peter tried to drive faster. "And, assuming he doesn't want you in the hospital, then you're coming home with me." Besides the fact that he and El could keep watch over him while the drug left his system, he wasn't sure Neal on his own would have the reasoning power to keep track of his radius even when his legs started working again.

Neal smiled, eyes still closed, head against his window. "I like you, Peter," he said.

Peter's smile was more exasperation than friendliness, but he couldn't stifle it. "Thank you," he said.


	4. The One Where Neal Transgresses

Disclaimer: I do not have rights to White Collar. They belong to other people.

Four

Neal was already trotting up the stairs to Peter's office when Peter opened his door and barked, "Neal, get in here." He withdrew to his desk and picked up a printout with a cardstock cover.

Unfazed by the annoyed set of Peter's jaw, Neal followed him in. "Yes, Peter?" he said, brightly.

"Close the door," Peter said. As Neal complied, Peter shook the pages in his hand. "Do you know what this is?"

Neal tilted his head at the pages in an exaggerated expression of interest. "It looks like the report you made me write on what I did during the Lao Shen case. You only now reading it?" Neal took one of the chairs in front of Peter's desk.

Peter glanced around, as if checking that they were alone. He flipped to the second page and stabbed at it with a finger. "What does 'went to bed' mean?"

Neal shifted his shoulders. "What do you think it means? We didn't watch TV."

Peter threw the report down and paced around to behind his desk. He lowered his voice, but it only made his tone more intense. "Did you sleep with Mei Lin Wan?"

Neal blinked. "You don't really expect me to answer that," he said with a smile.

Hands on his hips, Peter whirled toward the window, his back to Neal. "You did. You slept with her." He raised and dropped his hands in frustration and whirled back. "What did you do that for?"

"You're asking me why, Peter? Seriously?"

Peter's hand-wave said, _"Skip the crap."_ "Besides the usual reasons. What were you thinking?"

Neal looked faintly annoyed. "I was thinking we had six hours to kill in a hotel room and she had information I wanted. What's wrong?"

"Didn't it occur to you that _she_ might have been using sex to get information from _you_?"

"What information?" Neal leaned forward, all earnestness. "She knew who I was, she knew I worked for you, and she knew about our operation. I didn't have any more secrets to give up."

"Oh, you didn't have any more secrets." Sarcastic.

Neal leaned back again. "No more of yours. And I hope you don't think I would be stupid enough to incriminate myself with any of mine. She was Interpol."

"Neal –" Peter's agitation filled the room.

"Peter, are you honestly upset that I got laid during an operation? Don't tell me there's some FBI rule against that."

Peter strode to his chair and sat in it, where he could lean over his desk and look at Neal on the level. "The FBI does not pimp its agents," he said emphatically. "And, by extension, we don't pimp consultants, either."

Neal considered that with a faintly puzzled air. "If you set up a seduction scenario, sometimes you have to follow through," he said. "What is the big deal?"

"We do not set up seduction scenarios," Peter said.

"You do it all the time," Neal said.

"Dinner and drinks is not a seduction scenario," Peter said.

"It can be, if it would look suspicious not to," Neal said.

"This wasn't seduction, it was Pai Gow," Peter said.

Neal shrugged. "It was Pai Gow that turned into an overnight hotel stay with a beautiful woman who had information I wanted."

Peter flipped open Neal's brief report, and stabbed another location with his finger. "It didn't bother you that she'd held a gun on you?"

"It bothered me a lot." Neal nodded. "I unloaded it while I was undressing her."

"Nice," Peter admitted. "Then you could have left."

"I could have, but it would have torched the whole operation. Would you have wanted me to do that?" Neal sounded puzzled.

Peter stood again, and ran his fingers over a shelf of manuals, stopping on the one he wanted. "Did I not give you the FBI policy manual, DOJ 22-15 to read?" he asked, pulling it out.

A look of horror spread over Neal's face. "Oh, no, there really is a rule against having sex during an operation?" Neal asked.

"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "Neal, you don't have to do that." He flipped the manual open and read. "' Section C.15, undercover operations. An agent is free to abandon an operation as long as they can safely do so if at any time their life or conscience is compromised.'" He looked up at Neal. "So long as no one else is endangered by it, there is no prosecution that is more important than our agents. And you." He tossed the manual on the desk in front of Neal.

Neal reached for the binder, speaking slowly. ""Peter, are you upset because --" He held the unopened manual gingerly and looked up at Peter like he couldn't believe what he was saying. "Are you concerned for my -- honor?" He struggled to keep a straight face, but his wide blue eyes danced with amusement.

Peter saw it and pressed his lips into an angry line. "Don't laugh," he said, gesturing toward the bullpen of desks belonging to junior agents. "What if it had been Agent Cruz in that hotel room? Do you really think we'd expect her to sleep with someone for information?"

Now Neal grinned openly. "I doubt it, but there is a well-known double standard at work here."

Peter sat on the corner of his desk. "The FBI does not have double standards. We have standards. You don't have to do that. You can walk away."

"Okay," Neal promised with exaggerated earnestness. " I'll be sure and keep that in mind." He held out the manual.

Peter took it and rolled his eyes. "You do that. Did you -- get any information from her?"

Neal lost his grin and turned all business. "Peter I wasn't just looking for information for the FBI; I was looking for information for myself. It's not in the report, but I told you what she'd said to me."

"About Kate."

Neal nodded. "I didn't learn anything from her that night. But when the operation was over she called me with –" Neal glanced reflexively around as if concerned about being overheard. "What I told you she said about who has Kate. She didn't have to do that, particularly since I'd flipped on her."

"No, she didn't," Peter agreed, but then pursed his lips. "And you assumed she did that for you because the sex was so good."

Neal smiled. "I think we formed a bond, yeah."

Peter stood to walk around to his chair. "Oh, good God, get out of my office."

Still smiling, Neal obeyed.


	5. The One Where Neal Relaxes

The One Where Neal Relaxes

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the creation of White Collar.

Spoilers for By the Book. Thank you, China Shop for beta advice.

The booking and remanding process for Navarro and his thugs took its usual time, and Peter only vaguely noticed that Neal stayed out of it, keeping Moz company until the little guy made his escape.

Neal joined Peter in his office. "Peter, I'm gonna go home now, if that's all right."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you are? Normal workday too much for you?"

Neal shook his head, but his tired smile said he hadn't felt the jibe. "It's been a lot more than that." He gestured at the outer office, settling into its normal routine. "You don't need me anymore. I just want to sleep." Neal's youth and natural energy disguised any usual signs of weariness, but Peter saw them in his slack movements and the lack of interest in his eyes. Peter had been seeing those subtle signs in the guy since Kate's death – at least, when he wasn't floating on the high of having someone copycat his crimes. It didn't bode well that Neal hadn't reacted to his insult. Peter needed to test again.

"You're just going to go home and sleep," he said, deliberately lacing his tone with skepticism.

Neal tipped his head and gave him an exasperated look. "I don't know, Peter, I might stop at a drugstore. I'm out of toothpaste. Do you want to have Jones escort me?"

That was more like it. Peter opened a case file on his desk. "I've got better uses for Jones's time."

"But you're going to check my anklet." Neal sounded annoyed.

Definitely more like it. Peter smirked. "Maybe." He watched as Neal considered a rejoinder, then shifted his expression either into a con man's mask of sincerity, or, well, into sincerity.

"Peter, I'm pretty sure you saved my life at Sal's," Neal said. His gaze moved around Peter's desk and suit and finally settled on Peter's face. "Thank you." Neal swallowed, keeping his gaze steady.

He'd given Peter an opening. It signaled a willingness to listen to Peter berate him: almost an apology, as well as - actual thanks. If he'd meant to be disarming, it'd worked. What else could Peter say? "You're welcome," Peter said. He tried for his usual sternness, though he began to suspect he didn't need it. "Try not to put me in that position again."

"Believe me" Neal gave a rueful grin "I'm not fond of nearly getting shot."

Peter had meant more than that, but Neal had nailed one thing: Peter wasn't good at telling people his feelings. "Why didn't you just come to me with this?" he asked. "It is what we do."

"I would have as soon as I had anything." Neal didn't even bother with his usual wide-eyed innocent look. He shrugged. "Moz came to me with a bad feeling and a friend who gave him a book recommendation. You would have blown me off. You know you would have."

Peter shook his head, but not with anger. He heard not only honesty in Neal's words, but some truth. He made a quick resolution to take care to listen if Neal did bring him anything in the future. "Try trusting me next time. Don't give me a heart attack by getting involved with killers with me having no idea where you are." There. That's what he'd meant to say.

Neal's smile said he got it. He looked out the window. "You know, I wanted to chew Moz out for doing the drop himself, and not checking with any of us, but he already says I sound like you."

Peter nodded. "You thought you were going to lose him."

The corners of Neal's eyes crinkled in his version of a wince, then smoothed again as he regarded Peter. "I'm going straight home, Peter. No toothpaste. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good." Peter let him go.


End file.
